Author Archives: The Ed

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About The Ed

I'm a man of a certain age and weight who should know better. I live, moan and play in the Garden of England. In between rants and bouts of cramp I restore and retouch photos. At my age touching-up photos is a bit of a thrill. (see my photos)

Billy Bastard of Natal

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I am saddened to hear of the poor health of Bill O’Hagan: Sausage King, journalist, colleague, friend. A drinker of Biblical proportions, and a genuine wit and raconteur.
Speaking from his hospital bed to a friend at the weekend, Bill declared he was “on his way out” and is to move to a hospice at some stage this week. It would seem all that fun is finally catching up with him.
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hangingsausages
Bill is and has been a man of many parts, some of them still working. Everyone who ever met or worked with him will have their own O’Hagan story, and sadly I feel the obits column will soon be full of them. Many of them will ignore his wondrous sausages and long career working in Fleet Street but concentrate on his drinking. I have to tell you now that my stories and memories are no different.
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Some time during the late 1980s I once (well, quite often actually) found myself and a mate in a quiet little drinking establishment called Vagabonds, in New Fetter Lane, near Fleet Street, London. We (my friend Mr Sapsted and I) would decamp there because the pub we had been drinking in earlier had closed at 11 o’clock and we hadn’t finished what we were doing. They were always doing that to us.  It always played out in the same manner: We would arrive in the bar none-too-bright at some stage past 11.00, John the barman/owner would hold up his wrist, point to his watch and shake his head in a “what fucking time do you call this” sort-of-way. We would apologise, promise to spend some money in his bar before 11.00 next time, promise even to join the sodding club and pay the membership fee next week.
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We never did, but we weren’t the only ones. I don’t think I ever met anyone who was a member or went into the club while there was anywhere else still open. They came from Fleet Street, Old Fetter Lane, Canary Wharf and Hugh Street Ken. From anywhere that a newspaper had been exiled. They came all through the night after, and sometimes during, shifts. But nobody ever paid to join. And John the guvnor swore at them all, asking “what fucking time d’you call this ?”
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Anyway, on this particular night at around midnight, the door burst open and in ran Bill O’Hagan and who, without so much as a “good evening” but with two and a half bounds,  was onto the small stage to the left of the bar.
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(Some readers may be interested that on this stage was a stacked a collection of stereo systems and amplifiers and which, when the correct buttons were pushed in the right order, and the requisite leads were inserted into the proper holes, would play instrumental versions of popular and current musical numbers. No-one had ever heard the word Karaoke. Not down our way, at any rate. Other may also like to know that it was on this very stage that I sang a duet (ish) with a visiting member of The Drifters. One of us was very good. I’ll tell you all about it another time.)
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Back to Bill in the bar.
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Shouting the question “How does an Irishman pull up his socks ?” he proceeded to undo his trousers, letting them drop to the floor. He stood, quite literally, stark bollock naked in front of the stunned drinkers propping up the bar. He then bent over, gave a quick tug on his socks, then pulled up his strides and re-buttoned them. Without further ado, and with not another word, he ran out of the door. Even John, the aformentioned (Irish) barman was rendered speechless. Bill was never seen again that night. Not by us, at any rate. Who knows how many other boozers were to witness his tackle that night. We may not have been the first, We were probably not the last.
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That’s how I shall choose to remember him. Apart from another umpteen occasions when he’s made me laugh out loud. Many involving him calling a friend/wife/employer a telling them “I’m gonna be late and I’m gonna be drunk”. And he continues to make me smile. While researching a couple of bits for this piece, I stumbled upon this entry for him on IMDb. How the fuck does O’Hagan get an entry in IMDb ? I want one.  It’s not of the greatest length, but it does sum him up rather well.
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Picture 7
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Good on yer, Bill. Apart from anything else, I have met met a nice South African.
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While My Guitar Gently W***s

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You’ll have seen this one, I know. But that doesn’t mean it’s not worth seeing again. If you’ve had enough of the BBCs arse-licking pre-funeral coverage, treat yourself to watching a man getting angrier than you ever can.

I suspect this bloke was never in the running to be the 5th Beatle.

Absolutely Perfect Without Being Actually Any Good

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I am ashamed to admit that, until today, I’d never heard of Roger Ebert who has died aged 70.

He is described in obituaries today as the world’s most famous critic.  Hmmm… I thought that was me. However, I put my hands up and admit that this guy knew how to put down a movie and, judging by the quotes which Yahoo News kindly posted this morning, I shall enjoy myself digging out his old copy, even if I missed the thrill of opening a fresh weekly review as, clearly, his readers of his Chicago Sun-Times column enjoyed.

I suspect that if I’d had any keen interest at all in cinema, amassed a far too extensive for my own good dvd collection, or had ever worked for a large American media company for, say, the first ten years of this century (and then resigned to go work for another one) I may well have come across Mr Ebert and his glorious wit.

As it is, I have lots of back numbers to look forward to. But these will do for now. I intend to have the review of Armageddon (which my regular reader , Dave in Penge, will know is my most hated film) tattooed onto the inside of my eyelids.

Enjoy:

‘Crocodile Dundee II’ 
“I’ve seen audits that were more thrilling.”

‘Spice World’
“What can you say about five women whose principal distinguishing characteristic is that they have different names? They occupy Spice World as if they were watching it: They’re so detached they can’t even successfully lip-synch their own songs. During a rehearsal scene, their director tells them, with such truth that we may be hearing a secret message from the screenwriter, ‘That was absolutely perfect — without being actually any good.’”

‘North’
“I hated this movie. Hated hated hated hated hated this movie. Hated it. Hated every simpering stupid vacant audience-insulting moment of it. Hated the sensibility that thought anyone would like it. Hated the implied insult to the audience by its belief that anyone would be entertained by it.”

‘Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith’
“To say that George Lucas cannot write a love scene is an understatement; greeting cards have expressed more passion.”

‘Valentine’s Day’
“Valentine’s Day is being marketed as a Date Movie. I think it’s more of a First-Date Movie. If your date likes it, do not date that person again. And if you like it, there may not be a second date.”

‘Deuce Bigalow’
‘Deuce Bigalow’ is aggressively bad, as if it wants to cause suffering to the audience. The best thing about it is that it runs for only 75 minutes. … Does this sound like a movie you want to see? It sounds to me like a movie that Columbia Pictures and the film’s producers … should be discussing in long, sad conversations with their inner child.

‘Freddy Got Fingered’
“This movie doesn’t scrape the bottom of the barrel. This movie isn’t the bottom of the barrel. This movie isn’t below the bottom of the barrel. This movie doesn’t deserve to be mentioned in the same sentence with barrels….The film is a vomitorium consisting of 93 minutes of Tom Green doing things that a geek in a carnival sideshow would turn down.

‘Brown Bunny’
I had a colonoscopy once, and they let me watch it on TV. It was more entertaining than ‘The Brown Bunny’.

‘Battlefield Earth’
‘Battlefield Earth’ is like taking a bus trip with someone who has needed a bath for a long time. It’s not merely bad; it’s unpleasent in a hostile way. … 

‘Resident Evil: Apocalypse’ 
Parents: If you encounter teenagers who say they liked this movie, do not let them date your children.

‘Armageddon’
“No matter what they’re charging to get in, it’s worth more to get out.”

‘Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen’
‘The movie has been signed by Michael Bay. This is the same man who directed ‘The Rock’ in 1996. Now he has made ‘Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen’. Faust made a better deal.

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Strong and Dark, Like My Men

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I like George Clooney.

No, you read that right. I don’t look like George Clooney, (hush now, I really don’t) it’s simply that I like George Clooney. Three Kings is a lovely film. Out of Sight is a joy to watch, with a soundtrack to die for. I could watch Syriana on a loop.

No there’s nothing wrong with Mr C. At least not much.

My mum & dad are at the age when, like a lot of fortunate pensioners, they find themselves incapable of not buying stuff. Anything. “The kids (me) are off our hands, the house is paid for, we’ve had three holidays this year, so if we can afford it, we’re gonna buy it.” My mum likes George Clooney too. She also likes a nice cup of coffee. She likes a gadget.

Imagine, therefore, her reaction a couple of years ago, when George started advertising Nespresso coffee machines on TV. “OOOHH !!!, Lummmie, Jerry”, she’d have exclaimed to my dad. “Lets leg it down the frog&toad, sparrows, and snap up one of dem little beauties, and no mistake, matey boy” she’d have barked. (She doesn’t really speak like that, but I gather it’s how many of you think she may do).

Spilt at Birth: George and the Author enjoy a boys night out.

Split at Birth: George Clooney (left) and the Author enjoy a boys night out.

During the year that followed any visitors to the Bealing snr household would be welcomed at the threshold with a cup (and a saucer) of any one of a dozen different blends of Nespresso coffee, made in Jerry & Sheila’s new coffee machine. Passing tradesmen, Jehovas Bystanders and prospective burglars have all ‘enjoyed’ a cup of coffee made in mum & dad’s Nespresso coffee machine. I have been one of those visitors on many an occasion. I would be handed a cup almost before I took my jacket off, and often against my will.

Christmas is a worrying time for my parents. They have known me for the worst part of 50 years and as time passes I get, apparently, harder and harder to buy for. “What do you give someone who moans at everything ?” Dad once asked.

So, almost inevitably, one Christmas they bought me and The Incumbent a coffee machine. A Nespresso by Krups XN300540 Pixie Coffee Machine, to be precise. That was a lovely gesture on their part, I thought. Far too generous (especially compared to the plant dibber I’d just given them), but a lovely gift nevertheless. I like a cup of coffee (ok, it’s not Tea, but a nod is as good as a wink to a blind bat) and a nice cup of coffee is always preferable to a non-nice cup. This gadget would enable me to make us a nice cup of coffee whenever we wanted, especially if I could work out how to produce a nice hot cup of coffee — something that my parents had either failed to work out how to do, or refused to do, fearing hot coffee would melt both dad’s and my dentures.

Shortly after returning home to the Potting Shed, I decided to Christen our new gift. Following each and every instruction in the pamphlet provided I measured out the milk, heated it for the required time, selected the requisite setting for the amount and strength of drink I liked and prepared two mugs of coffee for us. Two luke warm cups of coffee. They’d taken several minutes to prepare, several seconds to drink. Disappointing. Not catastrophic, but disappointing. I tried again, several times, all to no avail. By following each and every instruction I could only manage a cup of java which, while not repulsive and un-servable, was just not…erm… how do I put it?… not how I wanted it: HOT. 

Some people like sugar in their tea, some like Iced Coffee, some drink what they erroneously called “herbal tea“. I like a hot cup of tea, and a hot cup of coffee. I got round it by heating the milk in a microwave —for 3 minutes, 40 seconds for 2 cups-worth — which, although did get us to the desired temperature beverage, wasn’t quite the point , was it ? My parents had forked out for a flash kitchen gadget. Why doesn’t it do what it should do ? I asked the Nespresso company who suggested heating up the mugs beforehand. Didn’t work. They couldn’t help me further.

George admires his display of Sharp Single Coffee Club ties.

George admires his display of Sharp Single Coffee Club Cravats.

I didn’t want to appear too ungrateful to mum & dad (they already knew of my coffee/heat issues), and even if I had moaned about it, it was nothing short of what they’d expect of me. But I thought I ought to bring this problem to the attention of the wider world. I should do my duty as a citizen and warn my fellow man of the terrors of tepid coffee. “I’ll blog about it” I thought, but decided against it as you’d have to be a real dullard to enjoy a long rambling blog about a coffee machine. So I decided to find the item on Amazon and offer my opinion. I thought I’d be polite, informative, helpful and, for a change, witty:

“Nespresso by Krups XN300540 Pixie Coffee Machine, Titanium (Kitchen & Home)

The Sharp Single says:

I was bought one by my parents for Christmas this year. Not sure why, really, because I’d not expressed a desire to own one, and had never had a hot cup of coffee from their machine since they’d had it (about a year) but had assumed they were doing something wrong (they are quite elderly and are apt to getting instructions wrong on most things). I here and now apologise to my parents. This machine doesn’t make a hot cup of coffee. You try everything (even the rather desperate suggestion of “warming the cups as Nespresso recommend) and yet all you get is a warm cup which is not something you sip on, but gulp down. Some people must like warm coffee, but not me. I like a hot cup. Not a microwaved, McDonalds several-degrees-hotter-then-the-sun-hot, but a drink that gives the impression it might once have been made somewhere in the vacinity of boiling milk or water. But this is something different. Something that takes several minutes to make, seconds to drink. How very disappointing. I suppose I can wait until summer and make iced coffees, but that’s not really the point, is it ? I’m feeling very deflated and very let down. If I’d have bought it I’d have asked for my money back, but it was a gift so I feel very mean in saying so. But I guess someone ought to say something. Poor show.”

Well, unless you were the owner of Nespresso, the inventor of the coffee machine or were so bored that you had nothing better to do with your life except make idiotic comments on anything or everything you read on the internet, you’d leave it at that, wouldn’t you ?

No such luck.  Here come the comments: First up, Rosie who suggests I must have a physical deformity:

“RosieB says:

 I’ve just ordered a new Pixie, but made curious by your review, I’ve just made a cup of coffee from our 6-year-old Essenza with my kitchen thermometer to hand…A lungo cup, measures 60 degrees immediately after pouring. I don’t know about the lining of your mouth, but this seems to be plenty hot enough for most people! Interestingly, I’ve just measured my husbands tea and it’s 55!”

Then a Doctor writes. I have stupidly been drinking my coffee at the wrong temperature:

“Dr. William Scullion says:

Coffee is not meant to be piping hot , I remember reading somewhere to make the perfect cup of espresso the water should be 68deg centigrade (from memory) . While I enjoy piping hot tea I prefer my coffee not quite so hot . In a similar way I prefer white wine chilled but red at room temp or lightly chilled.”
And finally a helpful hint. or not.
“mr tom nixon says:

Have you tried, as suggested by someone else, putting hot water in the feeder tub at the back of the machine?”

I should have let sleeping cats lie, I know. But you probably realise that these type of comments are like red pants to a priest to me. I decided to rejoin the fun. And I let off all three barrels:
“1. The Sharp Single says:

Thank you. Having removed the titanium lining from my mouth I now find the coffee to be so much nicer and hotter. MmmmmmmmmM! !! What was I thinking ?? Thank you for pointing out that I cannot tell the difference between hot and warm. I can sleep soundly now.”
“2. The Sharp Single says:
What a fool I have been. You are correct, it is my fault for liking piping hot coffee. Thank you Doctor.”
“3. The Sharp Single says:
 I haven’t but I will. So I need to boil the kettle, then pour the boiled water into the back of the coffee machine? Worth every penny then.”
It seems there are some people out there who are not familiar or even keen on my brand of humour. This bloke decided to chip in:
“T. Jacobs says:

Your petulant little remarks really are telling. Maybe spoil Christmass next year and insist your parents buy you that pony. I am definitely now getting a nespresso!”
That’ll teach me: He’s gonna buy his own machine !  Oh well, I had it coming, I guess.
I have replied to T.Jacobs, but I fear it could get out of hand. I’ve already been called “petulant” and that’s gone far enough I reckon. This is exactly how the Korean War started (the first one) .
Please feel free to send in your comments to Amazon. Just don’t send them to me.
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I’m gonna put the kettle on.
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Di Can’tio Stand it Any More

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The Waffen Sunderland Xi's first team photo since Paulo Di Canio (v far right) joined the squad. "Ve vos only obeying tactics"

Waffen Sunderland XI’s first team photo since manager Paulo Di Canio (v far right) joined the squad.  Said skipper Gerd “Nobby” von Rundstedt : “Ve vos only obeying half-time orders”

If I was Paulo di Canio I’d be feeling pretty hard done by. Why should he be singled out? I should imagine he was a bit peeved he hadn’t been offered the Chelsea Captaincy or the Liverpool no.7 shirt, never mind be savaged by B-Brains of I-I-International R-R-Rescue. It was undoubtably the Premiership’s laissez-faire attitude towards racism and fascism that attracted Paulo to the English game in the first place. .

But, as the man himself says, politics is politics and football is football, and they should never be mixed. Quite right too. (unless, like me you watched Escape to Victory yesterday, when that bloke Pele (from Trinidad, no less) certainly showed Anton Diffring and the other Nazis how to stick the old pig’s bladder in the back of the onion bag. And, like his new employers, Newcastle Reserves point out, it’s “insulting” to accuse Di Canio of such extreme views. If there’s any evidence to suggest otherwise, They’d like to see it.

Oh. Thank you.

Paulo Di Canio neither expressing a political view nor taking part in a football match.

Paulo Di Canio neither expressing a political view nor taking part in a football match.

Anyway, thankfully there’s plenty more to see and do with which to take one’s mind off all this fascist tomfoolery and racist high-jinks. Some of us have work to do.

Personally I am sorely tempted to stop what I’m doing and pursue a new role. It’s not that being North West Kent’s leading T-shirt designer and vendor doesn’t pay all I need to see me ok til the end of my days (provided I snuff it by Thursday week, to coin a phrase), but I feel my talents (sic) are wasted here. I feel sure I’d be more useful at New Broadcasting House, the home of the BBC now that they have well and truly put all that silly child molesting and those naughty serial serious sexual assault charges behind them.

This week’s BBC Director General (fill in name here) must be so proud that he’s taken hold of the reins in the week that the Great British Sewing Bee reaches our screens: A show which pits sewer vrs stitcher in a tense battle to see who can make the prettiest frock or cushion cover. This ‘Darn-off against the clock’ tugs smartly at the coat tails (see what I did there ?) of the previous hit “The Great British Bake Off” in which old women an effeminate men cooked scones at each other. You could have cut the tension with a dessert spoon.

So I have spent the morning compiling some ideas which would exploit and cash-in continue the success of the Sewing Bee with a contest to find our most productive pollenator: “The Great British Bee Bee“; best Robin Gibb impersonator: “The Great British Bee Gee Bee“; or most nervous performer “The Great British Hee Bee Gee Bees Bee“.

We need some more shows which capture the excitement and tension of the Bake Off. How about a head-to-head hand-bag forgery contest in “The Great British Knock-off“; an inter-county incontinence competition, “The Great British Piss Off“; or the hunt to find the best beer & wine shop : “The Great British Offie Off“.

"Celebrities" star in The Great British Wanna Be Bee

“Celebrities” star in The Great British Wanna Be Bee. Answers on a postcard, please. (clue: the bloke on the right is a woman, and vice versa)

Enough now. I’m off to take part in a pro-celebrity masturbating competition, entitled, “The Great British Toss Off”.

There’s a short series there, somewhere. Very short.

 

Mine, All Mine, I Tell Ya !

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Should North Korea calm down a bit, and we’re not plunged into WWIII; if this latest in a series of Ice Ages which we’re experiencing finally thaws for a little while; if Gideon Osborne doesn’t lead us all a merry dance into the jaws of Hell and Damnation; if the world doesn’t end just because society allows women priests & gay marriage; if those 6 lottery balls don’t drop in the correct order, allowing me to off-fuck to the Turks & Caicos Islands where I shall be waited upon 24 hours a day by the fragrant Wei Leng and her sister, the slightly over-ripe Mildred; should my suspected case of IBS clear up enough for me to spend any time at all slightly more than 27 yards away from a bathroom; should I not be called upon by Andy Flower to come out of retirement to lead the bowling attack against the Aussies this summer (when we all know my 7 year old niece Petunia could roll that lot over); and, indeed, should there be any Australian professional cricketers who make the trip over to the UK this summer, having avoided being dropped or sent home by the latest management numpties, then I shall be at Lords on Sunday 21st July to hopefully witness an innings and small change defeat of the Colonials/Inmates XI.

Thank you , Mr Postman.

lords

 

 

Telly Selly Time:

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Troubling the Scorers

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leg bye

Lords Cricket Ground, London, August 2009. Jesuit Spitfires vrs Opus Dei Casuals. Final of The CCCCC (Catholic Church Club Cricket Cup), or the Pontiff Playoff, as it’s known.  Standing umpire ‘Jordie’ Bergoglio signals a Leg Bye, denying the batsman, Cardinal K Fiddler of Baltimore, his debut first class century. Opus Dei went onto to win by courtesy of a Mother Superior run rate (Duckworth Lewis) (source: PopeCrickPix)

A Clog Dancing Trio. From Wigan.

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Those of you who missed last year’s Skipton Clogfest won’t want to miss out this time. Make sure you avoid disappointment and beat the rush by securing your tickets from Sharp Single Tours Inc.

Cover price includes a 3-hour round-trip to Barnsley.

(you had to be there.)

A Welshman Writes (yes, honestly)

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Take your time to read this by Stephen Moss who on Saturday gave Grauniad decipherers his take on the game of Rugby Football.

Stephen earns himself an invite to this year’s Sharp Single Christmas party for a) making several valid,interesting and fair points; and b) being one of the few Welshmen I’ve every read not to claim to have been a schoolboy international. At anything. 

Rugby: a sport so boring its fans make it great

By 

guardian.co.uk, Friday 15 March 2013 

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In the depths of this grim winter we’ve all needed something to keep us going, and for me it’s been rugby union’s Six Nations championship, which comes to a crunching conclusion tomorrow with three matches, including what promises to be an epic encounter between Wales and England in Cardiff.

Now, rugby is not to everybody’s taste. It’s dull, plodding and the laws are unfathomable, say the cynics, who contrast it unfavourably with the flowing, relatively straightforward game of football. And in some ways those critics are right. But they are missing the point that rugby is sport at its purest because, in reality, all sport is boring. It’s a tribal rite, not an aesthetic exercise, and no sport does tribalism better than rugby.

I had better admit at the outset that I am Welsh: born in Newport, which once prided itself on the greatness of its rugby team. (The team has taken a nosedive since I grew up there 40 years ago.) At secondary school I was taught by quite a few rugby players who played for Newport, including Colin Smart, the England prop who became famous when he downed a bottle of aftershave in a drinking contest after the 1982 France-England match and ended up in hospital.

I grew up with rugby, and loved the way the game defined Newport, who in 1963 were the only side to beat the mighty New Zealand All Blacks during a tour that included a remarkable 37 games. This muscular, dour industrial town based on iron and steel articulated itself through rugby. The football team was a national laughing stock, but the rugby players were world-beaters.

An England-Wales match is a titanic clash of cultures, histories and identities that no other sport can match. Football might claim England v Germany has the same resonance, but I don’t buy it. The emotional charge of Wales v England at Cardiff beats anything, and much of the power of Six Nations encounters is derived from the way the fans impose themselves on the occasion. This is so much more than a game.

The anthems often seem to last as long as the matches, especially in Scotland and Ireland, where they set popular anthems alongside the official ones. And the singing during games is fantastic. Whenever I hear the Irish sing The Fields of Athenry, I feel like crying, especially if they are beating the Welsh at the time, as has too frequently been the case in recent years.

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Set beside all this emotion, whether the sport is a great spectacle is irrelevant. Which is fortunate because, if you treat it purely as an aesthetic form, rugby is unwatchable. The ball disappears under a heap of bodies for long periods; the scrums are endlessly set and reset as referees struggle to impose discipline; and no one really understands the rules, which makes the giving of penalties a lottery. A game lasts 80 minutes, and if 5% of that is made up of running rugby you’re doing well. The rest will be scrums, mauls, punch-ups and a small man squatting over the ball for minutes on end as he lines up a kick at goal which has resulted from some alleged offence no one can understand in the first place.

Last week’s Scotland-Wales game was reckoned to be one of the worst of all time, with neither team able to establish any fluency. It became a battle of the boot, and saw a record number of penalties in a Six Nations match. But I found it gripping. True fans don’t care about the boredom or opacity of their chosen sport. All they are seeking is validation. Of course it’s nice to win in style, as the Welsh teams of the 1970s did, but what really matters is getting one over the other nations, especially the English.

Sports like to pretend they are interesting for the casual watcher, but on the whole they aren’t. No one in their right mind would sit through a four-day golf tournament unless they were related to one of the players; cricket is best dipped into online or on the radio, or used as an excuse to sleep in a deckchair at Hove; a five-set tennis match between Federer and Nadal is a supreme athletic confrontation, yet even that starts to pall by about the third hour and I usually try to time it so I get back to the telly for the tie-breaks; as for football, it is entirely beyond the pale – all that diving, play-acting and moaning to the referee after the match.

Rugby commentator Brian Moore frequently says, “It’s not football”, when he is berating a player for indulging in soccer-style antics – complaining to the referee, say, or rolling around theatrically after being head-butted – and let’s hope that will always be the case. Rugby is the Eton wall game but with fewer points of spectatorial interest and a much less comprehensible set of rules. Therein lies its greatness. The game is so awful to watch that the crowd, the fans, the nation willing their representatives on to victory, have to create the drama.

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